Chapter Nine #2
A noteworthy distinction, apparently.
“Er, yes, that’s what I meant. We were hoping, however, to speak to the owner of this farm for a potential feature in our book. Would they happen to be around?”
The man looked around at their group, eyeing them, curiously. “All of you are food writers?”
Theo looked back at Maurice, Louis, and Dani. They didn’t exactly look the part. Heck, Louis looked like he hadn’t read a book in his entire life. “Uh, we are the writers,” he said, waving his thumb between himself and Dani.
“What are you saying over there?” Maurice asked, defensively, something the man certainly noticed.
Theo quickly turned and said, “I’ve got it,” and then turned back to the man. “These two are…uh…with our publisher.”
Was that even something publishers did? Theo felt like he’d seen that in movies, so hopefully it was believable.
The man looked at them once more, then said, “Wait here,” before heading toward the main house.
They waited for five minutes before the man returned and escorted them to the house, leading them to a stone patio with arbors covered in grape leaves and vines.
They sat at a round table, set with water glasses and a pitcher, then an older woman came from the house a few minutes later carrying a wooden tray with bread and dishes of olive oil.
“Καλημ?ρα,” Theo said, standing and extending his hand.
“Good morning. English?” the woman asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m Lydia. Welcome to my home.”
“I’m Theo, and this is my frie—my fiancée, Daniela,” he stumbled, forgetting for a moment that Maurice and Louis were sitting with them, “and Maurice and Louis. They’re with our publisher.”
“You look familiar,” Lydia said, squinting as she examined him. “Have we met before?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Theo said, trying to think how they could have possibly met.
Lydia nodded. “Greek?”
“Yes. Greek American. I’m from—”
“New York,” Maurice butted in before Theo could unwittingly give themselves away. “We’re all from New York.”
Lydia tilted her head toward Maurice, studying him like she thought his interruption was unnecessary. Maurice clearly didn’t want to chance that she might put two and two together and figure out he was the Greek American from Chicago who’d gone missing a year ago.
“Yes, New York. We’re writing about the origins of Greek olive oil for a book,” Theo explained.
“All four of you?” Lydia’s brow raised, skeptically.
“Well, no. Just me and Daniela. Maurice and Louis do…marketing.”
What the hell was he even talking about?
“Hmm, I see.”
She didn’t seem convinced, not that he could blame her. He wasn’t doing a great job of selling it.
“So, you want to taste my oil?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Theo said, happy to move on from the lies.
Lydia explained each of the oils as they dipped in tiny pieces of bread. The sharp flavor of olives hit his tongue, coating his mouth with smooth, thick liquid. While the oil swirled around, he used the time to try to think of a way to broach the topic of the Minotaur.
“Why the μ if the name of the company is called Demetrios?” Dani blurted out, pointing to the μ on the bottle.
They really needed to work on their timing and communication. Lydia examined Dani. Uh-oh.
“The μ is for Minos, with the act of turning olives into oil dating back to the Minoan civilization.”
“And how far back does your family extend into history?” Dani asked.
“Are you asking if we are descendants of the Minoans?”
“No, not exactly. We’re curious about your roots and how your family came into this business. For the book.”
“We are native Cretans. Our family tree and this farm date back thousands of years. One day when I’m gone, my grandchildren will take over. And then their children. And their children’s children. The art of olive oil will never disappear.”
“And what’s this for?” Dani then asked, pointing to the eye emblem on the bottle of oil. “Any significance?”
Something flashed in Lydia’s eye. Dani had been right. Maybe they were onto something.
“Food writers, you say?” Lydia asked.
Theo and Dani glanced at each other, but as Theo was about to open his mouth, Dani beat him to it, reaching her hand across the table and taking Lydia’s.
“We’re here about the Minotaur,” she said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lydia said, scooting back in her chair and starting to rise.
“The watchful eye of your ancestors?” Dani continued. “This?” She pointed to the bottle. “This is for the eye of the Minotaur, isn’t it?”
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You are not food writers.”
“No, but you want your ancestors to return, right? Maybe we can help you.”
“How?”
“He has a theory about the Minotaur,” Dani said, “about Papantonis. He was your ancestor, right? Demetrios Papantonis? Is he who the mill is named after?”
They sat silently at the table, waiting for a response from Lydia.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anyone mention Papantonis,” Lydia finally said. “I’d assumed people had all but forgotten about him.”
“I wrote a story based on his journal,” Theo chimed in.
Lydia’s head ticked to the side. “What sort of story?”
“An option. A possibility of what might have happened to the Minotaur and the eye.”
“I’d like to read that, sometime.”
“Would you like to read it now? I have it with me.”
“Yes, I think I would. Come inside,” she said, standing from the table.